


the wound is the place the light enters

by Amber



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Background Helen Richardson/Jonathan Sims, Canon Asexual Character, Dirty Talk, Do Not Archive, Enemies to Lovers, Exhibitionism, Implied/Referenced Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, M/M, Martin Blackwood Getting Over Jonathan Sims, Masturbation, Not So Invisible Friend, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Telepathy, Unrequited Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Voyeurism, Your Telepathic Mind Buddy And Mine Elias Bouchard, anyway here's wonderwall and by wonderwall i mean some content warning tags, this isn't actually a fic about jonathan sims despite all these freeform ship tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 13:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16744963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Post-S3, Elias telepathically haunts Martin.-"So Jon's back," Elias says, appearing on the sofa alongside where Martin is sat and watching the telly — the one nobody ever sits in, that Martin bought in case he ever has guests.Martin wants to just turn up the volume on QI and ignore him, but this is the first time Elias has appeared when he isn't in the middle of something sexual, and if this is going to keep happening, maybe he should encourage that.So with unerring politeness and civility, he says, "Jon is back, yes."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Standard disclaimer:** Please don't link this to the creators. Please don't repost my fic on other websites. Transformative works or quotes with a link are fine and you don't need to tell me or ask permission (but I would love to know!)
> 
> **An actual author's note:** I started this one on October 5, amused by the cracky idea of interpreting the "hey batter batter" prompt, an audience call to annoy and distract a baseball player, as Elias trash talking Martin while he tried to live his life. it... developed legs, shall we say. Long legs. Long enough I've decided to post it in chapters.
> 
> If it's not too up myself to put a dedication on a fic, i would like to dedicate this one to everyone who put up with me screaming my way through my very first October prompt meme, from my friends in the word crimes discord to total strangers leaving kudos even as i filled the tag with trash. Your encouragement and feedback has meant the world!

Martin leans back in his computer chair in the dim silence of his empty apartment, slipping a hand into his boxers. The film he'd just watched on his computer hadn't been particularly sexual, but the lead had been cute, strong forearms and a full mouth, there had been two shirtless scenes, and more importantly after a couple of beers and a good film Martin is relaxed. It's been ages since he hasn't been stressed out about work or — well. Mostly work. So he rolls his soft cock idly between his fingers, pulling and stretching, just sleepily enjoying the sensation. Not even having a proper wank — well, not until he feels his cock start to tingle and warm, and he brushes the pads of his fingertips over his balls, letting idle fantasies drift through his mind's eye.

He thinks of Jon, because he always thinks of Jon when he touches himself. It's hard not to slip from there into worrying about Jon's still body in the hospital, but that's a spiral he can go down later. Right now he's just going to think about Jon as he was before, vividly alive, even when he was tired or annoyed. Dark, interrogative eyes, open and watching, curious. The way his hands looked curled around a pen. The occasional self-deprecating quirk of a smile. His mouth could be so red. From there, Martin dares to invent his own imagery, thinks of Jon on his knees — embarrassed, maybe, but willing. He thinks of how his scowling affront at the universe's meager offerings could be softened with a kiss. He thinks of what all those scars would feel like under his tongue.

Sometimes he constructs little fantasies that resemble bad pornography. There's one he came up with when he was sleeping at the Archives, where Jon walks in on him doing exactly this, stroking his cock to aching hardness in slow pulls. Probably in reality it would be even more embarrassing and awful than when he ran into Jon while he wasn't wearing trousers, but in his head Jon is concerned about Martin's pleasure, about helping him work through some stress, and offers to lend him a hand. He comes over to the little camp bed and— 

"Really?"

Martin's eyes fly open, his hand freezing.

"Can I lend you a hand, that's what you're going with?" Elias continues. "Even if he wasn't terribly embarrassed, even if he wasn't asexual, _and_ very aware of the power differential between you as Archivist and assistant, I still struggle to imagine Jonathan Sims being so smooth as to offer any level of mastubatory assistance."

"It's — it's just a fantasy," Martin responds defensively, taking his hand out of his boxers, very aware of how they're tented. He's flushed bright red, embarrassment prickling over his neck and swooping cold in his stomach, but he tries to sound unshaken: "What are you— you're _supposed_ to be in prison?"

Elias leans back on the cheap IKEA desk he's seated himself on, leaning a hand on a pile of old envelopes and smiling down at Martin with his usual soulless condescension. "I am in prison," he says. "It's exceedingly dull. So I thought I'd check in on you. See how you're coping with all these workplace changes."

"You thought—" Martin echoes, spluttering, and then hauls out of his chair with a rattle. But when he goes to grab Elias, he only gets air.

"Pay attention, Martin," Elias says from his left, and Martin whirls. There he is, standing in one of his expensive suits, not a hair out of place. "I just told you, I'm still in prison."

"You- you're in my head?" Martin can't help but be outraged. It was one thing when there was a point to it, when he was ready for it and knew it was something he'd have to endure for the good of the team, but this is a whole other sort of violation. His mind whirs with who he can call for help, what resources he has to get Elias out. "No. No, sod right off, please. Go- bother someone else with your — creepy spying—"

Elias laughs. "Oh? Who else is there. Melanie is beyond my reach now, I'm afraid. I suppose I _could_ still get to Basira, but I'm not as familiar with her mind as I should be. And she doesn't interest me the way you do, Martin."

"Don't— say that like it's a compliment," Martin scowls. God, god, he didn't want to be reminded about Tim and Jon, their absence from Elias' plans painfully vivid. "And what does that mean, Melanie's beyond your reach?"

Elias just shrugs and smiles placidly. "I'm sure you'll see for yourself once you all return from your paid leave. Very nice of Peter Lukas to arrange that for you, by the way."

Was that sarcasm? Was it an insinuation of some plot he's cooked up with Peter? No. No, he cannot do this. "I'm not going to talk to you," Martin decides, stubborn as a toddler. He flicks off the light, goes over to his bed and flops face down on it, the itch of arousal beneath his skin well and truly dashed with cold water. "I'm going to sleep," he says into his pillow, muffled. 

"Hm," says Elias, from very close. Martin peeks and is horrified to see the shape of him, lit by the light through his bedroom window, a dark silhouette stretched out on the narrow bed alongside him. He has his head propped up on one hand, still watching Martin. "Trying to be so boring I leave? It won't work. But I _can_ be quiet, I suppose. For now. Sleep well, Martin."

Martin doesn't.

* * *

By the next day he has started to think perhaps he dreamt it, hazy memories of Elias at his desk, in his chair — they can't be real. They're all on compassionate leave but he does have Basira's phone number, so he calls her and asks if she can help him: he wants to be certain that their plan worked and Elias is in prison. She agrees that's a good idea, and must have some contacts at the precinct to leverage still, because she gets back to him saying that yeah, Elias is currently rotting in a cell while he waits for trial. "Probably don't go visit him though, Martin, bit too Silence of the Lambs, that."

Martin assures her he has no intention of doing so, and after a little more small talk, hangs up. With any luck, he'll never see Elias Bouchard again.

* * *

Martin has never been lucky.

"At it again?" Elias asks him, amused. Martin freezes, the cold rush of anxiety and the hot blush of embarrassment colliding confusingly in his turned on body.

"Just, just go away," he squeaks, thanking god that he is under the covers this time. But Elias, sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed, must easily be able to see the shape where his hand and cock are tenting the blankets.

"Don't stop on my account," Elias says with a little smile, pale eyes bright with amusement. "You were doing very well. A little rushed, perhaps, and you could use some lubricant, but obviously if this is what works for you..."

Martin yanks his hand away from his dick like it's burning him. "You're a filthy pervert," he accuses. "I can say that now because you're not my boss. This is the second time you've shown up when I'm just trying to, when I'm—"

"Having a wank?" Elias fills in for him, amused. Martin thinks he might die.

"Yes," he hisses. He closes his eyes, expression stubborn.

"What, you think if you can't see me, I can't see you?" Elias asks. His voice is much closer now, and Martin's eyes open to find they're sharing the bed, Elias' smug face only inches from his own. "I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, Martin."

"How does it work, then," Martin responds hotly. "Why the _fuck_ are you in my head?"

Elias reaches down and places a hand on the covers right over Martin's groin. There's no real pressure, but Martin could swear he almost feels it anyway, arching up at the prospect of any hand other than his own touching him. He really, really needs to get properly laid. Maybe it's time to reactivate some of his online profiles.

"Because you're interesting," Elias tells him. "You do things I don't expect."

"Yeah?" retorts Martin, not impressed but not really sure how to effectively respond to that. "Like go to sleep until you leave me alone?"

"Like play with your arousal when I'm effectively lying in the bed next to you," corrects Elias with a smile, and to his horror Martin realizes he's right: his hand had crept back down and is just soothing his cock with little squeezes. He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, mortified, and makes himself stop.

"You're lovely when you blush, Martin," Elias tells him frankly. "I can say that now, you see, because I'm not your boss."

"Ergggh," groans Martin, rolling away from him and pressing his frustrated dick between his thighs, willing it to go down. "Stop, stop complimenting me and go away."

"You can't hold out forever, you know," is all Elias says, and like the Cheshire Cat his amusement seems to hang in the air long after he's gone.

* * *

"Shouldn't you be out there?" This time Elias is on the sink, perched on its edge as elegant as a bird.

Martin is sitting on the toilet, but with the lid closed and his underwear still up. He still startles at Elias' appearance.

"I will in a minute," he says. "Not that it's any of your business."

Elias gives a thin smile. "Of course." 

And then they wait in silence, in somebody else's cramped bathroom, until Martin gives in and says: "Look, what do you even _want_."

"Hm," says Elias. "That is the question, isn't it? Not being imprisoned would be nice. Saving that, I'll settle for not being bored. But there is also a side benefit of getting to watch you humiliate yourself."

Martin stands. "I'm not going to—? Ugh." He goes to push at Elias, but his hand travels through absolutely nothing, and Elias isn't there anymore.

"All right in there, Martin?" comes a bloke's voice from outside the door. Bruce, the IT specialist. From Tindr. "Are you on the phone or something?"

Martin runs a hand through his hair, not sure what to say. "Just, um, giving myself a bit of a pep talk," he calls back, even though that's probably more embarrassing than the truth. "Out in a second!" He runs the taps pointedly, looks at himself in the mirror. Starts as he realizes Elias is now standing behind him, leaning against the bathroom wall. "Jesus!"

"Well, I'll ... be out here if you need anything," calls back Bruce. He's nice enough. Decent looking, face-wise. Funnier on the app than in person, but able to carry a conversation in the face of Martin's useless stuttering. Had some interesting stories. Paid for Martin's beers, which had made him feel all warm and good. It wouldn't be so bad, to fuck him, if he could just get up the nerve to go out there and finish undressing.

"Body shy, hm? Not really surprising, you don't have a lot to work with."

Martin shivers and scowls. "Go away," he whispers vehemently. "Seriously, fuck off."

"No," says Elias, "No, I'm interested to see how you plan on giving this man any pleasure with that tiny little cock of yours."

"It's not," says Martin, his face heating. "It's not that small." And it's definitely increasing in size right now, a familiar warm tingle that Bruce's friendly beardy kissing had failed to inspire so far. He swallows, doesn't meet his own eyes in the mirror.

"Go on," Elias says mockingly. "Your man is waiting."

Martin breathes out hard, but just to spite Elias, he goes. Throws himself into kissing Bruce, who seems surprised by his fervency. "Are you okay?" he asks. "I, well, don't want you to do anything you're not on board with."

"No, I'm fine!" Martin lies. "Totally fine, yeah, just... I got a bit anxious, you know how it is."

"I do," Bruce says seriously, and kisses his ear, hands sliding under his shirt. "You don't have to be nervous, though, all right? Let's just relax and have a good time."

"That's right, Martin," says Elias, from where he's sitting on the bed. "Let's just relax."

Martin ignores him determinedly, kissing Bruce again, but he can't help but be aware of the prickle of Elias' gaze over his skin, somehow far more arousing than the careful way his date's hands are roaming, the way he keeps stopping to check in. When Bruce draws Martin's shirt over his head, Elias tuts and says, "One too many readymeals, I see. Perhaps I should have organized complimentary gym memberships for the Institute staff." When Martin kneels and takes the other man's thick cock in his mouth, Elias says, "Is that your idea of a blowjob? Come on, I'm sure you can take him a great deal deeper than that." And when they're rutting on the bed with their clothes rucked out of the way Elias stands over them and says, "Get on with it, Martin," and Martin comes, face screwed up, simultaneously humiliated and more turned on than he's ever been in his life.

Elias just laughs.

* * *

"Come on," Martin says when he's home alone again, having not stayed much longer after he came, despite Bruce's shy offer of a cup of tea. "Come out! Show - show yourself, Bouchard!" He's spoiling for a fight, wants to give Elias a piece of his mind about the complete invasion of privacy that had been, is and continues to be, but apparently now Elias isn't here.

"What, you only show up if I've got my cock out? Is that it?" Martin asks, giddy with fury, and undoes his flies. Takes himself in hand. "Is this what you want to see? Is it?"

But Elias isn't there.

Martin sighs, defeated, and feeling a little silly, standing in his kitchen with his cock poking floppy from his boxers. "Fine," he says, sharply, miserable. This is what he wants anyway, isn't it? For Elias to leave him alone?

Still. Maybe he should visit the prosecution, or try and make friends with a correctional officer, or do something, _anything_ , to get some of his power back. To have something he can really threaten Elias with, if he keeps— keeps sex-stalking him.

All thoughts of Elias get put on hold, though, when Jon wakes up.

* * *

For the last six weeks Martin has sat in the uncomfortable hospital chair watching the invasive machines simulate life in Jon's body as it rots away. Researching ways to transfer a mind elsewhere — he finds out about the Keay's books and pages, listens to the recording of the man in the machine, goes through the contents of artifact storage, even goes so far as to ask Peter Lukas if he knows any way of getting Jon's fully functional brain into a body that isn't dead. He got nowhere, of course, because god forbid spending day and night researching ever result in any _practical_ benefit, but Jon wakes up on his own and Martin is bitter and so, so grateful.

He isn't even there when it happens — as much as he'd like to always be in that hospital room, he isn't anything to Jon except a coworker, so the hospital staff can't allow him more time than regular visiting hours. And his time off ended a while ago, so while he tries to visit whenever he can, he does have to show up at the Institute. Instead, Georgie calls him, because the hospital called her.

Martin still isn't sure how he feels about Georgie. She and Jon are old friends, and maybe more, and that's intimidating? But otherwise she's nice enough, and she doesn't act like his girlfriend or anything. Was patient through Martin being passive aggressively rude to her — has been patient throughout this whole thing, really. "He's still in there," she'd told him, but wouldn't say how she knew. "He'll wake up soon enough."

Turns out she was right.

Martin isn't sure how to greet Jon. His first instinct is to go for a hug, but the man looks grey, skin paper-thin, bones protruding. It's as if he could just drift away. Instead, "Jon!" he exclaims, and presses Jon's clammy-cold hand in his own, tears in his eyes. 

"Martin," says Jon, a little flustered by this display of emotion — but it seems insincere, somehow, as though he's just going through the motions of playing his usual awkward self, and there's emptiness beneath. When Martin tries to catch him up with what's been going on at the Institute, Jon listens _hungrily_ , avid eyes all wolfish on Martin's mouth as he speaks.

"Have you been doing statements?" he asks directly. "Recording them."

"I, er, yes," says Martin, because he had kept that up, felt it was important when he was the only one doing them, even though he knew Jon probably wouldn't like it.

But: "Good," says Jon, and then, "Did you bring any with you?"

"No?" says Martin, confused, and Jon makes a grating noise in the back of his throat and presses the nurse call button by his bed.

"Jon..." says Georgie, looking concerned.

"Mr Sims, a good morning to ye, what can I do for you," says his nurse, appearing through the drawn curtains with a smile that Jon doesn't return. 

"Statement of — I. Plunket," he says, reading off her nametag, "Regarding an incident with a—" he pauses, as if listening. "Drowned man? Yes. Statement begins."

"What?" she says, looking pale, disconcerted. "I mean, I did, I suppose, that is, there was a drowned man. It was last May, and I was working late covering A&E when he was brought in."

And despite her obvious initial reluctance, off she goes, the story dragged out of her throat. Jon listens greedily; Georgie unperturbed. Like she expects this from him. Only she shouldn't. She shouldn't. Jon isn't a monster.

"Jon," Martin says, interrupting the woman's description of the man coughing up more seawater than lungs could hold. "Jon, hey, stop. This isn't right."

All three of them turn and look at him, and Martin feels an ache in his chest. He isn't sure if it's anxiety, some kind of weird peer pressure, or if he, too, wants the statement to be recorded, a visceral part of him that believes it has to be. "You _just_ woke up," he says weakly.

Something in his face must make Jon ashamed, because the stark starved-animal lines of his face soften. "You're, yes, you're quite right," he says softly. Casts a guilty look at both Georgie and the nurse, then back at Martin. "I'm sorry, Martin. I just — I need this. If I'm to get out of this bloody hospital bed, I- I need it."

Martin huffs out a sigh, bows his head instead of arguing, because who knows, right. Maybe he really does. "Yeah," he says, "All right."

Jon's attention slides back to the nurse, unerring as a compass.

"Statement resumes."

* * *

"So Jon's back," Elias says, appearing on the sofa alongside where Martin is sat and watching the telly — the one nobody ever sits in, that Martin bought in case he ever has guests.

Martin wants to just turn up the volume on _QI_ and ignore him, but this is the first time Elias has appeared when he isn't in the middle of something sexual, and if this is going to keep happening, maybe he should encourage that.

So with unerring politeness and civility, he says, "Jon is back, yes."

"And how is he?"

Martin does look across at him now, mouth pulled unimpressed to the side. "What," he says, "Can't see for yourself?"

"I can," Elias says. "I have. I'm asking for your opinion. Your point of view."

There's a pause while Martin processes this. Then: "Why?"

Elias sighs. "Because, Martin, I thought perhaps you might like someone to talk to about it."

Martin just rolls his eyes. "Well, _Elias_ ," he says, sharply mocking Elias' decision to use his name, as though they are or could ever be _friends_. "The Institute is paying for me to see a specialist, actually, so it turns out I have someone to talk to about it."

"Ah yes," says Elias. "Sara. Lovely girl. Thinks your supernatural experiences are a metaphor for trauma you don't know how to properly verbalize."

Martin's nostrils flare. "Have you been _listening in_ on my therapy?"

"Of course," says Elias. Calm. Pleasant. Martin wants to punch his smug teeth in. He digs his nails into the arm of the sofa, forces himself to look back at the television. "Oh please. Of course I listen. Even if you weren't my primary occupation at the moment, I would have done my best to do so. Do you really think she isn't telling everything you say to Captain Lukas? You're his favourite."

Martin tries not to let that unnerve him. "Like I'm your favourite?"

"Peter is far more dangerous than I am." Martin looks over at Elias, not sure whether to believe him, but his expression is, as usual, unreadable. He could be lying and it would stay exactly the same, a perfect poker face. "I never lie," says Elias, as if in response to that thought. "Except on the very rare occasions I actually play poker, and even then, I find it easier to cheat."

"Somehow I don't believe you," says Martin. The credits on the show are rolling. The audience applauding. Martin thinks about making a cup of tea, wonders if it would be rude when Elias is too incorporeal to drink.

"No, go ahead," Elias says. "I do miss the simple pleasures." He follows when Martin gets up to put the kettle on — well, he appears in the kitchen.

"You wanted to talk about Jon?" Martin asks.

"No. _You_ wanted to talk about Jon," Elias responds. "You're worried about him. Perhaps you're right to be: he's more Archivist than human now. Certainly to someone like you that probably constitutes a moral failing on his part."

"I'm more worried about the physical stuff," admits Martin. "He still looks sick, and it felt like he was desperate for a statement."

"He has developed a dependency on them, by necessity," Elias confirms. "Which often comes with an unfortunate side of psychological addiction. So yes. After months without taking one himself, nothing but the worn out dreams of old statements on repeat to sustain him as he recovered, I believe he was desperate. But you saw him at his worst. He won't always be so visibly inhuman."

Martin sighs, not sure that's a comfort. He fixes his tea. "Um," he offers politely, "Do you want..."

Elias chuckles. "No, but thank you for offering, Martin. Your enjoyment serves me well enough."

"Is that why you keep showing up when I'm...?" Martin trails off, embarrassment overwhelming curiosity and leaving him blushing.

"Aroused? Part of the reason. I don't get a lot of time to myself in prison." Martin, again, can't tell if he's telling the truth or not, how much poker they're playing here.

When he pours his tea he takes an immediate too-hot drink, burns his tongue and has the quiet vicious satisfaction of watching Elias flinch.

"Cutting off your nose to spite your face somewhat, aren't you?" Elias asks, a touch snippy. 

"Just don't want you to get too comfortable in my head," says Martin. "That's all."

But it's not Elias getting comfortable. While Elias never shows up in the Archives — Martin wonders if he maybe can't for some reason — it isn't really a surprise to find him suddenly seated at the ugly dining table, or on the sofa; doesn't startle him to look up from his research on cardiovascular function to find Elias stretched out beside him, watching him read. To some degree he's just relieved Elias isn't humiliating him with voyeurism anymore, but he does sort of wonder if this is some weird exposure therapy to further that end. If Martin is supposed to get so used to having him around that when he shows up in the middle of a wank Martin won't even properly notice and will just carry on.

And, and, to some degree it's annoying because. He put Elias in jail in the first place! He had _wanted_ him to go to prison, get tried for murder and rot behind bars. The punishment of the penitentiary. But Elias isn't really in prison, is he? He's in Martin's head, watching documentaries about the marvels of ocean life, enjoying feeling him eat a shepherd's pie, chatting about the Institute and the daily news. Mitigating his punishment. 

And the sad fact is — Martin loves it. He's so lonely that even a little attention from his worst enemy is enough to have him squirming in joy like a puppy. He loves having someone to watch Bake-Off with, and to talk to about work or the weather or Brexit. Elias is a filthy son of a Tory and a supernatural monster besides but he's still the most interesting conversationalist this shitty Stockwell flat has seen since Martin first moved in.

Peter Lukas, in turn, seems to have less time for him. Perhaps it's simply that Jon has woken up, or the demands of his family and ship and running the Institute are keeping him busy, but either way it feels like a relief. He mentions it idly, and Elias chuckles.

"Yes, not really worth marking you when it's increasingly evident your loyalty cannot be swayed."

"Can't it?" Martin says, biting rhetoric, because he doesn't want Elias getting the wrong idea. But then, in a more neutral tone: "Er, when you say 'marked'..."

"Captain Lukas is an avatar of the Lonely, and the purpose of an avatar is to devour. Or facilitate devouring, I suppose." Martin leans his chin on his hand, not sure if he finds Elias' repository of understanding as to how the supernatural world works compelling or obnoxious. "Both," Elias answers for him, shows teeth because he knows Martin hates it when he answers questions that weren't asked aloud. "At any rate, you were ripe for the plucking."

"But now I'm not. Because I've been doing statements?" Letting Beholding get a real foothold.

Elias flicks up an eyebrow at him. "Something like that. You know, if you're going to bake potatoes, you should probably get them in the oven now."

"Oh, right, yes, thanks," says Martin, glad of the reminder, and goes to prepare his tea.

Sometimes, of course, he's normal human levels of vulnerable and is immediately reminded what a dick Elias is:

"I miss Tim," he makes the mistake of admitting when they're talking about something else.

"I am sorry. But it was his time."

"No. What? No it wasn't. Maybe Tim thought it was but that just meant he needed counseling, not— to be thrown in the deep end so he could heroically _drown_ himself."

"Counseling," echoes Elias flatly. "Like with you and Sara? Timothy Stoker found no solace in telling you or the Archivist his story, I doubt he would have found any from telling a paid stranger, if they even managed to pry it out of him. No, Tim had plenty of chances to see a therapist — after his brother died, and after _Sasha_. He did not. He wasn't the talking about it type."

"So instead he just. Died," Martin says, unimpressed. "Wow. Great. Really great alternative."

"Now you sound like him," says Elias, and the condescension in that tone reminds Martin of how much he'd love to smash Elias's teeth in sometimes.

(But he is also starting to understand that Elias lives three steps removed from emotion, in the logic of processes and probability. So different from how Martin sees the world.)

Most of all he talks about Jon. God, it is so good to have someone to talk about Jon to. Someone who _understands_ ; who knows about Martin's crush, and his mum, and his fears of how the two are connected. Who knows about Martin lying on his resume and Jon bullying him a little in the early days out of relentless perfectionism. Who knows what an Archivist actually is and does. 

Though. Elias knowing does also mean he can be a bit cutting when he sees through Martin's bullshit.

"Have you ever actually told him how you feel?" he asks, interrupting Martin going on a tear about Jon trying to hide whatever weird physical developments not-dying gave him, like Martin would even care.

Martin stutters to a stop. "He knows. Um, I mean, he has to know. He — listens to all the tapes, and I'm pretty sure I've all but said that. Well."

"Yes," says Elias patiently, watching him like a cat. "But have you ever actually spoken to him directly about it. Perhaps posed a question that would give him the chance to accept or reject your feelings."

Somehow Martin feels as though he's being made fun of. On the other hand — what's new. "Look," he says, and then pauses a moment to think about how he used to say, _Listen_ instead and wonder when he changed.

"Martin," says Elias. "Focus please."

"God, I hate it when you do that," Martin grouses in a low tone, but he also sort of doesn't — having someone to literally take the wheel and redirect his brain from driving over a cliff like _Thelma and Louise_ is sort of. Good. Actually.

"Hm," says Elias with a thin smile. "As you were saying: No, Elias, for all my boldness in other areas, I've never quite managed to actually proposition Jonathan Sims for anything more interesting than a replacement pen when mine ran out."

"I invited him to drinks," objects Martin.

"After-work drinks," corrects Elias, ruthless. "With a group of employees. Which he of course said no to, because he hates people, and considers a once-yearly Curry Night in December to be an appropriate amount of work socialization."

"Well when you put it like that..." Martin mumbles.

"All I'm saying," Elias continues, "Is that you haven't really made a good-faith effort to advance this relationship past what it currently is. Yes, the most likely result is that Jon, given his absolute lack of proclivities, turns you awkwardly down for good, but then you may proceed to get over it and get on with your life."

"Harsh," says Martin.

"And yet still a net positive result, if you think about it. So the much less probable outcome, whereby he goes on a date with you and you end up married and happy, seems to me that it should be worth the risk."

"Are you matchmaking me and Jon?" Martin asks, brow wrinkling and pitch high with confusion.

Elias laughs. "Am I? That's an optimistic perspective on what's happening here."

Martin rolls his eyes, more fond than he should be. "I'll... think about it," he says. "I'll think about telling him."

"No, you overthink everything," says Elias, inexorably commanding. "Do it."

* * *

So that's how Martin ends up on a date with Jonathan Sims.

("I don't think," Jon had started, nervous and surprised. "I— I'm not really. That is."

"I know, Jon," Martin had said patiently, and he can't tell if Jon has decided that yes, Martin does know what he's getting into, or if he means to scare him off, but the end result is:

"All right," Jon still bemused. "A, ah, drink together, then. I'm afraid I'm not— you'll have to pick the bar."

"I know, Jon," Martin had repeated, adoring and longsuffering.)

Jon is grim and distant, nursing his beer and staring across the room at nothing. Martin is worried about him, but also doesn't want to talk about work.

"Seen any good films lately?" he tries.

Jon looks back to him. He has the air of a man who is blinking, readjusting to the conversation, but his eyelids don't so much as twitch. "I er, no," he says. "That is, I'm not much for the cinema these days." He does seem to realize that's an awkward answer, and tries, "Have you?"

"Mm," says Martin. "I don't go out, but I watch stuff online sometimes. Saw this one about a mute woman who falls in love with a fish monster. Made me cry."

" _The Shape of Water_ ," Jon says, and when Martin looks surprised he explains, "Georgie... sent me pictures. So it was sad?"

"I suppose?" Martin drags his finger through the ring of condensation his glass has left on the table. "It was... it had a happy ending, but I kept thinking, it's only happy because of where the story chose to stop. Like, there was always going to be complications for them."

"Because he's a monster," says Jon, wry. 

"Because other people are monsters." Martin smears the water with two fingers and makes himself look up at Jon. "Look, I don't mind if you're here just because you're hoping for something normal. I'm just happy you're here. So can you stop looking at me like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop? Please?"

"Yes, I, er... yes." Jon rubs his jaw with his scarred hand. "I'm sorry. I haven't done anything like this in a long time."

"How long?"

"Not since Georgie," Jon admits.

Martin hums. "Yeah. In uni, right? Why'd you and her break up?"

Jon looks momentarily affronted by such a personal question, but then seems to remind himself that it's a normal thing to ask. "We..." he says, looking uncomfortable. "I felt like I was pretending to be something I was not. In retrospect, she never actually pressured me, but I felt as though I was supposed to ... want things from her that I simply did not."

"Sex things?" Martin clarifies, and Jon clears his throat. "I mean, as opposed to babies and stuff? I don't know."

"Yes, Martin, sex things," Jon confirms with blistering enunciation.

"Okay. And, so we're clear, do you want sex things... with me?" Martin presses his fingertips against the table, breath caught like a bramble in his chest. Jon looks back at him like he's been struck. "Not that, I mean, you don't have to — even if you were sort of interested it wouldn't have to be now, I mean, um, on the first — date, it wouldn't — _I'm_ not trying to pressure you but I don't know what to expect and. I want to."

"You want sex things?"

"I want to know you, Jon," Martin says impatiently, and then at the quirk of his lips. "Oh, don't tease."

Jon gives a soft huff that is probably the closest he gets to a laugh these days. The colour has been coming back to his pallid skin slowly over the last month — Martin notices it especially now, with a flush high across his cheekbones. "I... have next to no experience in this arena," he says stiffly. "But I'd like to try. If we're going to be in a proper relationship I think it's important for me to meet your needs, and I'm sure that, with some practice, I could—"

"Jon," says Martin, stern and soft all at once. "What about your needs?" Jon looks helplessly at him and Martin takes a long draught of his beer. "Right," he says. "Please just be honest with me. Are you interested in me, um, romantically. Not like, love, even, just, do you care about me as more than a friend."

"I don't know," says Jon. "You— you're very good to me. And you deserve to have a good time."

Martin's lips press together. "So no, then," he says, a little sharply, trying not to be upset and failing. "All right, are you interested in me sexually? Do you want to mess around?"

"Yes," says Jon, and Martin is surprised and relieved and pleased for all of six seconds before he adds, "I find myself curious as to what it would be like. What you would be like. But I cannot lie and pretend I feel an — attraction, that I do not."

It hurts. It's unfair to Jon, he knows, because he can't help the way he is, but it still feels a lot like rejection.

"Right," Martin says softly, dropping his gaze, "Okay. So we could go home together, you could satisfy your curiosity, I'd get a pity-fuck and a few moments of normal happiness, and then what. Back to work? The end?"

"Well." Jon at least has the grace to look a little sheepish. "Yes." He must see what this is doing to Martin, because he says, "That's not— ideal, of course. In a perfect world I think we could really make a go of it, being, dare I say, happy together. I would enjoy having someone to share my life with, and I, I do care about you. Martin. Perhaps you could — I could watch you satisfy your, more carnal urges, with others. That might be all right."

The way Elias does, thinks Martin, and then immediately wants to claw that thought out of his brain. He takes a long, careful breath, exhales it. Wonders if this is what Elias had been leading him to all along, the absolute git.

"We don't live in a perfect world," he says.

"Far from it," Jon agrees. He looks far away again, something vast and empty behind his eyes, as though a person could fall into an endlessness contained in the hole of Jon's pupils. "I do not think," he admits, "That any sort of relationship with me will end well, Martin. I don't think the happiness I could give you would be worth the inevitable pain."

Martin's sinuses burn suddenly. Somehow being rejected for his own good is worse than because Jon doesn't like him or they wouldn't really work or whatever. It's like Jon's saying that Martin is wrong to like him. That that's the flaw standing in the way. What a catch twenty-two.

He blinks a few times, plays with a coaster, tearing strips off it. "Yeah," he manages. "Um, I- I get it."

"Well then. Good." Jon looks uncomfortable, glances about as though he's not sure what he's supposed to do now. Martin sighs.

"Will you stay for another drink?" he prompts.

Jon gives him the most intense look. "Yes. Whatever you want, Martin."

Whatever he wants. After several more drinks and an arduous attempt to find common conversational ground outside of work, Jon says he's going for a cigarette, and Martin follows. He doesn't really smoke, unless he's a lot drunker than he is right now, but he doesn't want to sit alone either, and the cold cut of night air might freeze off some of the despondency that's settled over him.

He leans up against the brick wall of the alley alongside the pub, watching Jon's mouth around the cigarette as he lights it with lust twisting in his belly. Some of it must show on his face, because when Jon looks up at him, he flushes.

"Really, Martin," he mutters, fondly exasperated, smoke trailing from his mouth. It's so much like the way he used to scold Martin for skivving off at work that Martin's breath catches, heat suffusing him. Jon raises an eyebrow.

"I..." starts Martin, and he's a little drunk and a little reckless, and Jon is trying so hard to seem normal. Maybe they could go up behind the skip and Jon would give him — give him _something_. Some way to whet the longing he's been carrying about with him for years. Anything, Jon had said. Maybe if he just kissed Martin, he'd come to the realization that — that — he'd been gay and repressed all along, that they were good together, that— 

"I should go home," admits Martin, tired. "Before I do something I regret." Jon's brow pinches, but Martin's already pushing off the wall, fishing his phone out of his pocket. "I'll call us a taxi."

"I can walk," says Jon, a little stiff. "If you're, going your own way, as it were. I don't live far."

"Aren't you tired of being kidnapped yet?" Martin snaps, and then before Jon can say anything goes, "Yeah, look, sorry. I know. Just... I'll call us a taxi."

He actually calls them a Lyft, only he isn't sure Jon knows what Lyft is. They sit in the back of somebody else's car in silence, listening to a Spotify playlist titled GAY NIGHT OUT. It's only two Abba songs before they reach Jon's, and if he pauses a moment before getting out, like perhaps he's considering leaning across the seat between them, he covers it with a sharp, "Goodnight, Martin."

The driver tactfully changes the playlist to GIRL WHO JUST GOT DUMPED. They sing along to Adele together as he drives Martin home.

* * *

Martin isn't all that surprised when Elias shows up. Yes, catching sight of him suddenly in the bathroom mirror is still startling, but otherwise he was sort of expecting it. It's almost kind of funny, this visitation in a neat suit and well coiffed hair in his shitty flat, watching Martin get ready for bed.

"Nice night?" Elias asks.

Martin scoffs, but there's a toothbrush in his mouth. He has to rinse and spit before he speaks. "Like you don't know exactly how it went."

Elias hums as Martin towels his face and follows him out of the bathroom. "I do," he admits. "I'm disappointed, actually. I thought I was going to get a show."

"What, me and Jon?" Martin shrugs out of his nice shirt, stripping down to his boxers. At this point there's no point being shy when Elias has seen literally everything. "Out of luck, I'm afraid. He's _really_ asexual."

"And yet," Elias' voice has dropped low, "He's remarkably good at sucking cock."

Martin freezes in place.

"He likes it, you know. Pleasing others. Being used. He would have gone to his knees for you right there in that alley if that's what you wanted from him. And yes, he would have hated himself for it after, but Jon will use anything he has to hand to punish himself for his own existence." Elias' voice is almost neutral, like he's giving Martin a statement. It's the first time in ages that Martin has remembered how much he hates the man.

With wooden limbs, he turns out the light and climbs into bed. Elias is just fucking with him. He's in _Martin's_ head, but he's never been in Jon's, he couldn't possibly know this.

"Do you want me to tell you how I know, Martin?" Elias asks, sitting beside him in bed, relaxed back against the headboard, one knee drawn up. "Let me set the scene for you. My office. Jon is certain that he's going to his death, probably couldn't stop thinking about the Unknowing — at least until I took his mind off it. Now he's on his knees beneath my desk, with my hand in his hair and my cock in his mouth, sucking with single-minded devotion. And every time I breathe out my enjoyment, tell him what a good job he's doing, he moans like a slut for it."

"Fuck you," whispers Martin into the dark. "I don't believe you."

"That doesn't matter," says Elias. "You're still picturing it. Getting hard thinking about Jon sucking another man's cock."

He's not wrong; Martin is tenting his boxers. It's just not really from thinking about Jon on his knees so much as Elias with that imperious command, Elias accepting nothing less than absolute obedience from his Archivist. Elias in his bedroom, telling Martin some dirty fantasy.

Martin rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. Pushes the sheets down so Elias can see: the swell of his stomach, the trail of hair, the way his cock twitches in the cool air as he frees it, the gentle curl of his fingers beneath the head. It probably makes Elias smug, but he's not looking, doesn't care, he's done with this stupid fucking game. This is what Elias wants. This is what Elias has wanted this whole time. Well, he can fucking have it.

"Keep talking," he says.

"About how I made Jon beg for me to come in his mouth?" Elias asks, huskier now. "About how he truly would have let you do the same, and then sat back on his heels and finished his cigarette?" 

Martin's cock makes wet noises as he works it fast, but he still has to spit in his palm to get it comfortably slick. "He would have been disgusted by your ugly little prick," Elias tells him, and Martin gasps a hurt breath and wanks faster (It's not, it's not, objectively it's — but god, god, Elias demeaning him is hotter than it should be.) "And he still would have done it. Taken you into his throat, given his mouth over for your use. He let me take him by the hair and hold him with my balls on his chin, and even when he choked around me he didn't fight it, didn't push away. So desperate to be wanted even if he himself lacks the capacity to want."

Martin arches into his own hand, moaning, his eyes fluttering open to look hazily at Elias, who goes tense and avid beside him. "Jon can't give you what you really need, though, can he," he says, reaching over and ghosting a hand over Martin's stomach. It's not there, it doesn't feel like anything, but Martin's skin prickles anyway, cock twitching hard in his hand. "You thought he could, because he used to berate you for poor work and you'd get off on it, go home and masturbate to the memory of your boss giving you a dressing down. Truly pathetic. But alas, in the bedroom the Archivist prefers to be used and praised, and while perhaps you might _enjoy_ coming down his warm throat, he is simply too kind-hearted, deep down, to say the type of things you want to hear. But I can. I know all your filthy little fantasies, Martin."

Martin closes his eyes, doesn't bother denying it. Elias is in his head, after all. And even the violation of that feels good right now, like he could get off simply on the excoriating gaze of his psychic boss, examining all the worst parts of his mind.

"Yes, your mind is incredibly tiresome," Elias agrees, and he sounds bored and unimpressed but when Martin looks over his gaze is scorching hot, pupils blown and lips flushed. He's never really thought of Elias as attractive before, because he's kind of bland, but he certainly is like this, all arousal and raptor intensity. His gaze is a physical weight, pressing over Martin, tightening around his chest, smothering him. Devouring.

Nothing he's doing is about Jon anymore: he's getting off on Elias' presence, his interest, his beautiful fucking voice talking dirty, calmly telling Martin that he's a filthy slut, a disappointment, that he should be ashamed of himself right now, and he is, he is, the shame flushing through him, the degradation sweet as knives. "You're worthless," Elias tells him. "Good for nothing except serving as a cumrag. Perhaps I'll have you installed in the Institute for free use."

Then he leans over Martin, looking down at him, their faces so close. And Martin watches as he spits, a shining drop of saliva that drips from that cruel mouth, and it isn't real, never actually touches his tongue but Martin still whines and comes on his stomach with a full body jerk that shakes his little bed.

Then he collapses flat, sweaty and blissfully free of conscious thought. Slowly he comes back to himself, though, rubbing his spent cock with a pleased hum. He wonders idly if he can get Elias off somehow, or if he just did — he'd seemed to feel some of Martin's sensations, maybe that extended to orgasm? But when he opens his eyes to ask, he discovers he's alone again.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin worries, because Martin is a worrier, that things are going to be weird between he and Jon now. But then they just — aren't. Jon still barely has time for his assistants, and Basira and Martin are still too busy with saving Melanie from being possessed by an angry ghost bullet to really have time for him in return. It's not that he doesn't trust them, and Martin knows that, so he doesn't make a big deal of it. Jon is just... he has these huge, inhuman concerns now, about his coma dreams and Beholding rituals and emergent powers, and Basira and Martin are only allowed to be involved insomuch as it's their job to help with whatever research needs doing, and the rest of the time it's just. Archive business as usual. People reporting made-up ghosts for a laugh, and trying to file boxes of statements, and Peter Lukas popping up unexpectedly to be a creep.

So all right, maybe he's a little softer when he says, "Thank you, Martin," when Martin brings him a cup of tea, but things between them haven't quintessentially changed. At least, not on Jon's end.

For Martin's part, it's a couple of days before he can look Jon in the eye again, and only then because he convinces himself Elias was lying to him. Or, cheating at poker, as he'd probably put it. Telling stories to achieve an end result, but they didn't _really_ happen, they were just. Elias' fantasies, or Martin's fantasies, or some vector of both. Once he's decided that, things go back to normal. 

Better than normal, actually, because Elias was right about one thing. Actually having it out with Jon about where they stood with each other, romantically, may have been awful to live through but he doesn't feel that hopeless longing anymore, isn't taken suddenly by abrupt pangs of lovelorn certainty that Jon will never even notice him. He's not strictly over Jon, per se, because he's not sure that's possible? He'd take a bullet for the man in an instant. But he's accepted, without bitterness, that nothing is going to happen between them. So when he fusses about how tired Jon looks, it isn't a hopeful sort of fussing, there's no deeper meaning that Jon is oblivious to. He just wants Jon to get a bit more sleep. 

They could all use a little more sleep.

But while Jon and he are fine, Elias doesn't come back. And Martin _notices_. Like, it's weird how much of an absence it leaves, his not-so-imaginary friend not popping 'round to invade his brain. It should be great. It should be so, so good to have a break from being pestered when he's trying to watch TV or cook or have a quiet wank, after three months of Elias taking out a timeshare in his life. 

He even gets back on Tindr. Meets up with a guy for coffee — no Elias. Meets up with another guy in a pub — no Elias. Shows up at a third guy's flat just to get his cock sucked and then leaves again without even taking his trousers all the way off. No Elias. Which, Martin reflects on the Tube home, feeling both relaxed and a little seedy, definitely means something's up, there's no way Elias wouldn't have something to say about his choice of hook-up.

It's not that he's anxious about the sex, because — because it wasn't even actual sex. Was it? Even if — hypothetically, even if that did count as anything more than masturbation, Martin has actual one night stands all the time. It's not a big deal! And it probably has nothing to do with Elias' absence.

It does occur to him that maybe something's happened. Maybe somebody has hurt Elias. And serves him right, too. He's not worried. It's only... they were supposed to watch the next episode of _The Durrells_ together?

God, breakfast is boring without Elias to read stupid headlines to.

God, Jon is intolerable without Elias to vent to after work.

God, eating dinner alone is depressing.

Then he starts to wonder if maybe Elias broke out. He could ask Basira, but she might want to know why he kept checking that Elias was still behind bars? Anyway, he would have heard something. No. No. It's not that.

Finally he has to face the facts: he is being ignored. Deliberately. Up with which he will not put. 

Fortunately, he knows where Elias lives.

* * *

The man on the other side of the glass partition is startlingly unexpected in his own way. For a moment Martin just holds the phone in his hands, cradling it without bringing it to his ear.

They must allow prisoners in remand to wear their own clothes, because Elias is in one of his typical suits instead of the garish green and yellow jumpsuits he's seen the other prisoners wearing. But it's nothing like the pristine appearance he's been manifesting in Martin's home. In person, he looks disheveled, unkempt, the grey somehow more clear among the blond of his hair than usual, his beard growing in. And he's been injured. No: he's been beaten. Three of his fingers bandaged. Two black eyes. A split lip. A broken nose. The start of some sort of plaster above the tight collar of his shirt, hinting at more hurt beneath the clothes.

Needless to say, Martin's first words on the phone are: "What _happened_."

"My cell-mate finds me disagreeable," says Elias. "The correctional officers also find me disagreeable, and believe I murdered Daisy Tonner, of all things. She wasn't exactly popular, but law enforcement tends to be loyal to its own. Certain external parties with a grudge against me have chosen to use that fact to their benefit and amusement."

"Right," says Martin. He feels sick. He'd thought about getting power over Elias somehow, when this had all started, but not... not like this. Maybe he sort of wants to punch Elias in the teeth sometimes, or, a lot of the times, but it's different to imagine him held down and beaten, maybe even regularly. Maybe even worse things. Martin looks down at the table.

"Martin," says Elias briskly. "I'll be fine. My trial's coming up, so the warden has had me moved to isolation, and my new guards are behaving themselves. Can't have me appearing in court with fresh bruises, I suppose."

"Oh," says Martin, "The trial."

He knows a little bit about it. The prosecution wants him as a witness, because he found Gertrude's body, and Leitner's, and called the police, and so on. The defense is trying to get the tapes Melanie stole dismissed as evidence, and he's pretty sure they've been digging for ways to discredit him, too. 

At this point he doesn't really care about any of it. Three months ago it had felt like a victory, having Elias arrested for murder, but Peter is just as much a monster, and one who cares less about Jon's well-being — and barely even sees the assistants as people, for all his compassionate leave and employee feedback. Elias may style himself as a puppet-master, but the supernatural forces responsible for ruining their lives and killing their friends go on existing with or without him.

Martin holds the phone with two hands, slumped into it. Now that he's here, he doesn't know what to say, but he also doesn't have unlimited time.

"You stopped appearing," he settles for, a fact without a question.

"Yes," says Elias, giving away nothing, gaze still sharp even in his ruined face. Martin gets the impression he could sit in stoic silence until the guards signaled an end. 

"Um, why?"

"Does it matter?" Elias parries. "You told me plenty of times to leave you alone. Well: wish granted."

"Well. Yes. All right, I did, but..." Martin's brow pinches. Remembering the ghost of Elias' non-existent touch, the smooth swell and lull of his words as he talked Martin off. "Are you cross at me?" he asks, voice small with anxiety.

Elias laughs suddenly, a shocked, delighted sound. "Am I _cross_ at you. Remind me, Martin, who was it that organized for me to be locked up in here? Where I am unable to speak with or guide my Archivist. Where I am routinely under attack from all sides."

"Yeah, well, you _murdered people_ ," Martin retorts, feeling horribly guilty and wishing he didn't.

"How dreadful of me," says Elias. "Are you cross at _me_ , Martin? Given all you know about Jurgen Leitner? Given all you've learned about The Eye?"

Martin swallows, feeling back-footed. "I- look. I miss you, that's all," he admits, annoyed about it.

"Yes," says Elias. "That was the point." He hangs up the phone sharply, turns with his hands out so the guards can cuff him and lead him away. Martin watches him go, frustrated and miserable.

* * *

Jon is digging again. It reminds Martin of a statement he read once, of the Leitner that just instructed the reader to DIG, but instead of trying to physically make his way into the Earth, Jon is compulsively determined to get to the bottom of the mysteries of the Institute, no matter the cost.

"Useless," he sneers of Peter Lukas in the tone he used to use for Martin. The two of them are sitting surrounded by piles of paper statements and their accompanying folders of research and attribution. The numbers are making Martin's head spin, but Jon has been gentle, perhaps learning to simply be grateful for the help and the occasional cup of tea. 

(Not that he drinks it, just lets the mugs warm his hands, flush colour back to the tips. Martin wants so badly to ask if his body's been doing all right since it. Well. Died. But it's very personal and not really anything he has a right to know, so British repression wins out every time.)

"Do you think Elias might know something?" Martin asks carefully.

Jon scoffs. "Oh, I'm sure he does. He insinuated for quite some time that he was trying to prepare me for something — no doubt this so-called ritual of the Watcher's Crown. Which is why I _need_ to know more. If I'm going to throw a spanner in the works it needs to be done before he gets out of prison—"

"You think he will, then?" Martin interrupts, throat suddenly tight. 

"I think it's very likely," Jon says grimly. "Unless he pleads guilty as part of some greater plan, perhaps in order to use an insanity defense. There has been no further evidence found, he has the capacity to blackmail any judge or jury into obedience, and he denies that it's him on the tapes — which are inadmissible anyway." Jon sighs heavily, looking down at the papers in his hands without seeming to see them. "Julia Montauk contacted me, you know. Said the criminal justice system fails to take into account the supernatural — and she would know better than most, given her father's incarceration. She also insinuated that... there are other ways to deal with monsters. There's times I don't wonder if she's right."

"Is he, though?" Martin asks in a small voice. "A monster. I mean, he makes a lot of noise about choice and all that, but — I don't know. Do you think without— without Beholding, or whatever happened to make him the Head, Elias would still be a killer?"

"No," says Jon flatly. "Of course not. He's no doubt a victim of circumstance — but so was Jane Prentiss, Martin. So was Michael. That doesn't make them less responsible for the deaths on their hands."

Martin suspects Jon would add himself to that list of the guilty, and he dares to reach over and squeeze his shoulder lightly. It no longer comes with the illicit thrill of touching Jon, just a sympathetic attempt at comfort thrown out into the void. It's probably meaningless, but what act of kindness in their world isn't? Martin does it anyway.

"Come on," he says. "It's past five. Let's get this all cleared up and head home."

Jon looks reluctant, hand ghosting across a statement like a lover, but he exhales quietly and does as he's told. "Of course," he agrees, shuffling papers back into boxes. "You know best, Martin."

Does he? Well, maybe when it comes to Jon not killing himself over the work. Martin is pretty sure that in other areas he doesn't really know anything at all.

* * *

Jon is right, of course: Elias stands in court in his dove grey suit, bruises healed or concealed, and looks calm and sane, charming and distinguished. Head of a non-profit organization for the preservation of historical artifacts and cutting-edge research. From a good family. Oxford man. Beloved by the community. People Martin has never seen before take the stand to extol his virtues. Institute staff who know nothing of the realities of the paranormal swear that he cared deeply for Gertrude. A death certificate for Jurgen Leitner is produced dated years ago. There is security footage giving Elias an alibi for both murders. 

And the defense has no evidence, and Martin can't testify to anything but an old body and a gory office, and even the Sectioned officers seem strangely reluctant to push the issue.

Maybe there are other things he could have said. Maybe someone would even have believed him. But — Jon doesn't show up, and his suit doesn't fit him properly, and the only person in the room who feels like a comfort is staring placidly across at him from the defendant's seat. Elias keeps looking at him, and Martin can feel it on the back of his neck, heating his cheeks, making his skin crawl. Are you listening, he wonders. Are you listening to how I can't stop thinking about you?

Though there does turn out to be one other person he knows there, dressed incongruously in a bespoke suit and a garish cheap tie and heavy sailing galoshes. Peter Lukas slips into the bench next to him at some point, smiles across at him with a friendly little chin-tip. "All right, Martin?" he greets him.

"Hi," responds Martin, wary and lukewarm. He checks his phone again — he's sent Jon a series of increasingly worried texts and received no answer.

"Say, Martin," Peter says when things adjourn, "Have you ever thought about batting for one of the other teams? Beholding — could be a sinking ship, if you get my drift. Relies too much on the other powers. Now _loneliness_? The understanding that our individuality means we're all always alone in the universe? _There's_ a power you can sink your teeth into."

"Um," says Martin nervously, but also a little annoyed. He thought he'd already dodged this bullet. The way Peter is leaning across him, into his space, makes this feel like a come on rather than a sales pitch, and he doesn't like it. 

The smile Peter gives him has nothing behind it. He doesn't seem to notice that Martin's uncomfortable, or perhaps he simply doesn't care. "Beholding might mug you for secrets but when you're sitting in the gutter with your pockets turned out, what's left? Nothing. And that's us."

"Yeah," says Martin blandly. "Um. Thanks. Have you seen Jon?"

"The Archivist? As it so happens, I may have caught him on his way out this morning. Plenty to talk about. Seems someone gave him a big tip on just what the Watcher's Crown entails." 

"What?" responds Martin, gobsmacked.

"It turns out," says Peter, watching him like a shark, "That it's got a lot to do with how he dreams." He nudges Martin's arm, friendly. "But I had some great ideas for how to preempt that. Not so useless after all, am I?"

Martin shivers, and thinks about Jon taking off on his own, following a tip from Peter Lukas, desperate to close this chapter before Elias was free again. Thinks about Jon saying that he has to be responsible for saving the world. Thinks about him lying in a hospital bed in a coma because he was willing to put his life on the line for that responsibility. Shit. _Shit_.

"I have to go," he says, pushing past Peter despite the way it makes a few people turn and look. "Sorry, sorry, I have to go! Text me— text me with the outcome!"

Does Peter even have his number to hand? Irrelevant. He's almost certain Jon's putting himself in danger somehow. He's calling Basira even as he's flying down the steps to the courthouse two at a time. "Come on," he grits out, "Pick up pick up pick _up_." 

None of them ever call each other unless it's urgent. Which is probably why she already sounds worried when she answers. "Martin? Did something happen with the trial?"

He doesn't even bother answering her. "You're at the Institute?"

"Yeah," she says, "Up in Research. But—"

"Shut up," says Martin, breathless, "No time. Go to Jon's office — run. He won't be there, break in. Use his computer, the password is m-r-spider, no spaces, no caps, no punctuation. M-r-spider, got it?"

"Mr Spider," echoes Basira, and he can tell from her breathing that she's running. "Got it. Though how you know that is—" 

"Because he used to keep it on a post-it until I told him to throw it out," says Martin, fond and frustrated and so, so scared for Jon's life. "Doesn't matter. Just, I need to know where he's gone. Look at his search history, emails, maps, recent documents, anything. Check around his desk, too, in case he hand wrote it. Listen back to the spare tape recorders, too, sometimes they turn on. Then get back to me with whatever you find."

"Course," says Basira, and starts to ask something else, but Martin hangs up on her, fumbling for his car keys.

* * *

"Martin?" Georgie asks when he shows up on her doorstep, wild-eyed. "What's wrong? Did something happen to Jon?"

"Not yet," says Martin, though that at least confirms that Jon isn't here. Now that he's not driving he's on his phone again, flicking through the information Basira's emailing him. "Can you drive please? I need to read this stuff, figure out what to do."

"I— _drive_? Martin, please, I can't just—"

"Georgie," says Martin. "I know you hate that he tries to keep you uninvolved. I know we should have told you about Melanie going off the deep end, and Jon should have mentioned he was going to stop the Unknowing, and. I know. I get it. I get how frustrating it is to feel out of the loop. But you can get in the loop, right now — you can get in the _car_ and come help me talk Jon down from doing something stupid and self-sacrificing because he thinks it's the only option."

"Christ, all right," says Georgie, bemused. "Let's go then. Do you know where we're going?"

"Um," says Martin, relieved beyond words, looking at his phone. "Yeah. Oxford, apparently."

That's a long, tense drive. But Basira was right on the money, as it turns out, because Jon's car is parked out the front of the house at Hill Top Road, parked unevenly alongside the fallen stump of the old tree, the dead roots dangling like the nerve of a plucked tooth.

"I've only seen this place in pictures," Martin admits as they parallel park on the opposite side of the road. It took them an hour to get here, and the afternoon is grey, the shadow of storm-clouds on the horizon, school peak hour making the sounds of traffic loud — but there are no other cars here, in this quiet neat neighborhood near the old golf course. Georgie stretches after so long behind the wheel, but Martin is in a hurry, terrified he's going to be somehow too late.

"Jon?" he calls, loud, as he pushes open the already ajar front door.

"Martin?" comes a shouted return, "Martin, is that you? I—"

He sounds like he's in distress, and Martin races through the corridors, trying to find where in the house Jon's voice is coming from. There are enough statements come from this house that Martin isn't sure if the weird energy of the place is real or psychosomatic. If there's even a line between those things any more — if he's scared enough of something, will it simply manifest?

He kicks open a door and bursts into the room, stumbling over himself in a way that isn't very cool at all, and there is Jon, on the floor. And sat on his chest is a dumpy woman, slightly older than them, with bobbed hair, a blouse and blazer.

"Martin," breathes Jon, annoyance and relief both clear on his face. "What the hell are you—" He struggles, but the woman must be heavier than she looks. There is a sound in the air, something pitched outside the range of Martin's hearing but raising the hair on his arms all the same. It's a familiar sound.

"God," says Jon. "Get— _off_ —"

There's static in the furious growl of his voice, but it does nothing. 

"You're an Archival Assistant," the woman says to Martin, tipping her head. "We've met before, I think, but I was someone else then."

"Michael?" Martin hedges, because the undercurrent of _distortion_ can't be anything else. 

"It's Helen, now," says Helen. "I should warn you. If you try to help him, I will kill you."

"No!" says Jon, even as Martin is clenching his fists and jaw. He doesn't have to examine her hands closely to know fighting her — it? — is a bad idea for the same reason it was Michael, but Jon looks so grim and vulnerable, his skin back to that dead waxy colour that it was in the hospital, and Martin is worried for him.

Then there's a clattering of footsteps behind him. "Martin?" and then, as Georgie nearly runs into him, " _Jon_?"

"Georgie," Jon responds, baffled.

"Helen," says Helen, perhaps just wanting to feel included.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" Georgie asks.

"The Archivist was going to end his existence," says Helen calmly. "I found that to be... unacceptable."

"I was not—" Jon scoffs, grunts as he tries to push her off again, fails. "I wasn't trying to _kill myself_. There's just — good evidence that this house belongs to the Web, and I thought perhaps, given— I thought— if we can change powers, like Melanie did—"

Helen laughs, and it's as terrible as Michael's was, a layered headache of a thing. "Assistants, yes. But not you, Archivist. And even if you could, even if you let the spiders take you, or drain you, even if you slipped through the cracks in the very firmament of this house and away from your life, do you really think it would change anything? From what I can tell, Gertrude's death only delayed your ritual for... well. Hm. Time. How long have you been Archivist, now?"

"Two and a half years," says Martin, quiet. 

"Yes," says Helen. "I don't think that's a very long time, is it?"

It could be rhetorical, but Jon answers like he knows she's actually asking. "It is not," he agrees. "Not relative to the cost. All right, so it's a bad plan. I've already told you, I'm not about to dash off down the stairs, and now my — now Martin and Georgie are here, so could you _please_ let me up?"

Helen looks down at him, touches his cheek lightly, sweetly. Martin is unsurprised to see a little cut form along Jon's cheek, shallowly beading blood, and he starts forward, but Georgie catches his arm. She's staring at them, hard-faced but soft-eyed, and Martin looks back, and — yes, all right, there's something in the way Jon shivers at her touch, the way he looks up at her, fearful and nakedly longing. Something that makes his own chest catch.

Then there's a soft tremor from below, the floorboards stuttering a little. "Did you feel that," Georgie asks, and it's obvious everyone did — even Helen, who finally stands and simply yanks Jon up after her, tearing his shirt a little. 

"You shouldn't have come here," she says, and Jon finally snaps out of whatever hypnotized daze she had him in and pulls away, heading, thankfully, for the door. 

"Come on," he says, "We can discuss this outside. Hurry up." And he shoos Martin and Georgie like chickens, as though they didn't come all this way for his sorry arse.

The vibrating gets louder, more insistent. There's a hot rush of air from below, like an exhalation, and Jon stops hurrying them all towards the exit and goes still. His head tips. 

"Do you hear that?" he murmurs.

"Jon, come on!" says Martin, turning around and grabbing his hand. It's clammy, cold as the grave. He tries to pull Jon along but Jon is looking back. 

"No," he's saying, words falling rapidly all over each other. "I have to see. I need to — it's coming. It, it's a doorway, a doorway, and Anya Villiete walked through to us and now it's _open_ again, and we must close it, I must, I..."

"Doorways," says Helen, strangely straight-spined. She hasn't followed them. "I'm good at doorways." And she turns towards the little door below the stairs, and Martin hauls Jon with all his strength, and Georgie helps, and they struggle their way out from beneath the overbearing atmosphere of the rumbling house.

* * *

The house is peaceful from the outside, but they still cross the street. Jon paces agitatedly around Martin's car, smoking a cigarette with trembling hands and casting dark looks at it from the corner of his eye.

"Should we go?" asks Martin.

"No," says Jon, "No, no, you should stay. In fact, maybe Georgie should come in my car, so I don't just... turn around again."

"You want to go back in there?" says Georgie, exasperated. "Look, that — your — friend, or whoever, Helen? I think she made it clear that whatever you _think_ you're trying to accomplish—"

"It is not," Jon says darkly, "A rational desire. That house craves power. It is, a mouth, and in the basement is the throat, and it calls for me, specifically for me— not just Marked by the Eye but, but _encapsulating_ it, the Archivist, the avatar, it wants—"

"Jon," says Martin, coming and taking his arm. Jon has begun to move back across the road. At Martin's touch he turns, startled, and shakes his head like a dog getting water out of its ears.

"Sorry. Sorry, I ah..."

"Yeah." Martin tries to keep his tone positive. "Just lucky Helen beat us here, eh?"

"Yes," agrees Jon, though the mention of Helen sends a complicated and unreadable series of emotions tumbling across his face, and he looks back at the house again. His voice goes soft. "Do you think she — got out?" 

"Oh, Jon," Georgie says, fond and longsuffering. She meets Martin's eyes. "Stay here with him. I'll go check."

Bold as brass, she walks back towards the ominous shadow of the house. Jon almost calls after her, but falls silent. Drops the butt his cigarette on the road and steps on it to put it out. "Thank you, Martin," he says softly. "For coming. Given everything. Did you, ah, happen to hear the verdict?"

"I left too early," admits Martin. "But Peter Lukas texted me. They let Elias go."

He expects Jon to be angry, but the man just looks tired. "Course they did. Well. Best resign ourselves to humanity being watched by a gigantic eyeball for the rest of time, then."

"Is it really just like... a big eye?" Martin asks. "Just, that's it? Big old watching eyeball?"

Jon clears his throat. "Well. I don't know if it really manifests _physically_ as such, it's more just, the sensation of some omnipresent awareness, you know how it is."

Martin nods, because yeah. He's worked for the Institute longer than Jon, even if he only transferred to Archives pretty recently. He does know how it is.

Georgie reappears alone. "Couldn't find her," she says, rubbing at her forearms. "God that place is weird."

"Did you check downstairs?"

"I... called. I might not be afraid of whatever's down there, but that doesn't mean I can't tell it's a bad idea to look. No, Jon, I was pretty thorough though. She's just... gone."

"Right," says Jon, icy. "Well. I suppose The Distortion is capable of creating its own exit. I'm sure we'll see it again next time there's trouble."

"Hope not," says Georgie. "Those hands were proper spooky."

"Don't say spooky," Jon reprimands her, and then goes very still, and Martin knows his heart just clenched up because his did the same thing, thinking of Tim.

"Come on, Jon," he says. "Let's go get some dinner in Oxford. You and Georgie's alma mater, right? Must know somewhere good to eat. Then once peak hour's over we can drive home."

"Yes- yes all right," Jon agrees, casting one last look back towards the house before they go.

* * *

Martin finds out the next day that Elias has returned by the racket coming from his office — he and Jon are having a shouting match, fragments of _What were you thinking?_ and _Do you have any idea_ , muffled voices almost indistinguishable. Martin pauses in the corridor and smiles to himself, even though he shouldn't feel nostalgic for his bosses fighting.

"Nice to have Mr Bouchard back, isn't it," says Rosie, catching his smile as she passes. "That Peter Lukas was a bit of a creep, tell you the truth."

"Right, yeah," agrees Martin politely, manages not to ask how she doesn't also think Elias is a whole lot of a creep. Reminds himself that he, too, thought Elias was just a genial but overworked paper-pusher once. 

"I knew he couldn't have murdered those people," Rosie says. "Does make me a little leery 'bout working late, though. Two murders and they've not caught the killer, I don't feel safe, do you?"

"Well," says Martin, "Um, if it helps, I don't think anyone would want to hurt you, Rosie. Everyone here likes you, you know?"

"Aw," says Rosie. "You're a sweet lad, Mr Blackwood. Were you waiting to go in? Do you want me to make you an appointment and you can come back later? His schedule's a bit booked what with everything but I could make some room for you."

"Yeah," says Martin, suddenly resolved to speak to Elias somewhere he can't run away. "Yeah, that would be great, actually. Thanks, Rosie."

* * *

Elias is tapping away at his keyboard when Martin comes in, slouches into a chair. He continues typing without looking over, as Martin sits there in silence, watching him.

"Peter Lukas," Martin says eventually, and that apparently gets Elias' attention, enough that he stops typing, though his hands are resting on the keyboard. "Peter Lukas all but told Jon to go to Hill Top Road, and then he told me to go after him. If um, if the Spiral hadn't interfered I think we might not have survived."

Elias snorts at that. "Have a little more faith in your Archivist than that."

"I mean it! That place, it's not — it doesn't belong to any one power. I've looked at the statements, none of them are consistent. Hauntings, demons, Spiral patterns, Lightless Flame cult, children fed to spiders, loss of identity. Jon seems to think everything can go into the categories he's given us, the er, the Smirke ones, but Hill Top Road is different. I — I could _feel_ it."

Martin stutters to a stop, but he does at least have all of Elias' interest now. "You are getting quite good at your job, aren't you Martin," he remarks, and it should be a compliment but Martin shivers. "All right. There are places like that, and it's not unreasonable to think Hill Top Road is one of them. Tell me something I don't know." From anyone else that would sound like a petulant turn of phrase, but Elias seems to mean it.

"Peter Lukas was— _is_ , trying to kill the Archivist," Martin insists, and then his brow creases. "And... maybe me, which, I don't really know why he would, but, um..." he trails off with a shrug.

"You're next in line for the throne, as it were," Elias says to him. Martin can't help but feel startled.

"As Archivist?" He pushes a hand into his hair. "I'm not really sure I'm, suitable?"

"You wouldn't say that you're driven by curiosity? Perhaps past what is wise?" Elias raises an eyebrow at him coolly. "But no. Jon is... irreplaceable. It's more likely to be my position you inherit. Despite a rocky start with the paperwork, you've got quite a knack for team management."

To say Martin is surprised by this would be an understatement. "I thought, um, what was it? If you die, we all die? Beating heart of the Institute, or whatever?"

"Not a lie," says Elias. "I've told you, I don't. So yes. Killing me, or destroying the Institute, would result in the deaths of those of you bound to Beholding. You, Martin, might be an adequate replacement for the Eye's purposes most of the time, but we are playing in the endgame of a board I have constructed meticulously. You are too green and too bound by human concerns, and not nearly loyal enough to our master. So you would fail. And in failing, consign your colleagues to their doom. Do you think any of you would have survived the Unknowing had Daisy Tonner shot me in this office a year ago?"

"Right," says Martin weakly, taking all that in. Probably Elias all but doing a villain monologue shouldn't be appealing, but there's something about his tone...

"Oh, for heaven's sake," says Elias, looking at him again. Martin blushes.

"You should probably stay out of my head if that, um, if you're suddenly not okay with that sort of thing," Martin says sullenly. Elias' mouth pinches. 

"You're right," he says. "Perhaps if you didn't give me every reason to mistrust your loyalty, I wouldn't have to monitor you like a child."

Martin's flush deepens, and he stands suddenly, slamming his hands onto the desk to try and break through that veneer of icy disdain. "I am here trying to _tell_ you, that _your_ supposed ally tried to ruin all your plans, because you stupidly decided another Avatar made a good replacement—"

"Did I?" Elias snaps, voice tight suddenly. "Did I decide that? Have you considered that the Lukas family writes my paycheques just as they do yours?"

"You're trying to tell me you weren't collaborators, then?" scoffs Martin. 

Elias finally gives up on his work, it seems — he too gets up and comes around the desk. Martin thinks he might be about to punch him, thinks with a sickening lurch of Leitner's blood splashed across Jon's office, the dripping pipe. But Elias simply lowers his voice, in very quiet fury. "I warned you about Peter Lukas, Martin, I gave you clear evidence of exactly the kind of manipulator he is, but oh no, compassionate leave and therapy, this Lonely cultist _surely_ has all our best interests at heart." Martin has never heard Elias do mocking sarcasm in quite that tone before, but there it is. It — has its appeal. "I am aware that Peter made a last-ditch attempt at a coup. Who do you think made my time in prison so miserable? Killing Jon would have set us back centuries. But I am _handling_ it."

This close, Martin can see the bloodshot tiredness in Elias' eyes, the silver in his blond hair, the way his broken nose scarred. It seems like it healed far too quickly, but perhaps that's simply a perk of the position. 

"Did you make yourself taller?" he asks.

"What?" Elias is visibly thrown by this non sequitur, banked coals of anger morphing into brighter bafflement.

"When you — did the hologram thing, in my head. It seemed like you were a little taller? Now that we're actually standing here— I don't know, sorry, maybe it's just my imagination and I'm just, remembering you taller."

"You are an imbecile," says Elias with a frown. He barely goes up on his toes, chooses to haul Martin down to meet his mouth. Martin isn't expecting it, has to brace himself on Elias' shoulder in surprise, though then his fingers curl and he fists the material of the suit tightly as he realizes Elias is present, Elias is _solid_. Martin can touch him.

Martin discovers that he very much wants to touch him.

For now, though, he's focused more on the kiss, which is certainly a good one, even if it feels sort of like a fight. Elias demands the whole of his mouth, but Martin refuses to just let him lead, tipping his head to try and conquer Elias' mouth instead. He sucks Elias' tongue sharply, gets teeth in reply, scraping over his lower lip and making him moan low in the back of his throat. 

They stagger apart, breathing heavily. Martin's mouth aches from the way Elias had bitten it, but he thinks he gave the smug asshole as good as he got. Certainly Elias' pale eyes are no longer their usual still pools. He looks at Martin like he plans to devour him. Right now that doesn't sound like the worst fate.

But while he's considering kissing Elias again, Elias is obviously not doing the same. "Leave," Elias says flatly. Martin's hands ball into fists.

"You can't just—"

"I can. Get out. I've got work to do." His tone is thick with disgust, but that only makes Martin's heart pound harder. God, this is a real step down from his crush on Jon. And it's probably only some sick fucking mind game to Elias.

Martin calls on the ghost of Timothy Stoker to give him courage. "You're a prick," he enunciates clearly, even though it makes him absolutely tremble with anxiety, insides clenching.

Elias laughs, short and bitter. "Believe me," he says, "I'm well aware. But you have better things to do than stand there and call your boss names." He turns dismissively, and Martin advances on him and yanks him 'round again.

"No;" he says. "No, I am not agonizing over you again. You don't get to just kiss me like that and then push me away."

Elias' eyes narrow. "Would you rather I lock the door to my office and put you on your knees?" he asks, and they both know the answer. "Unfortunately after months out of office and some very close deadlines I really am too busy to degrade you right now, Martin, so go away."

Martin's throat clicks as he swallows. "Right," he says, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. "Fine." He backs off, though he does make sure to childishly slam the door on the way out. _Prick_.


End file.
